Notre Dame
When Notre Dame cathedral caught on fire
we cried out oh no,
what a sight to behold,
oh what is happening to this world,
as the last giant softshell turtle died the same day.
When the cathedral was burning, walruses were falling to their deaths
because of disappearing ice,
polar bears starving,
the usual villages blowing up in far away places,
children forced to mine in the Congo.
Don’t get me wrong,
I loved Notre Dame,
stood in her abbeys more than once, wandered her corridors, gazed and fell in love
with her stained glass, touched her gargoyles with my eyes, savoured her bells,
their timeless sighs.
But the day Notre Dame was burning
the other cathedrals of the Earth were burning too – oceans forests rivers sky – each one
of them slowly collapsing around us but for a moment all we could see
was Notre Dame and I wondered why.
Maybe it was safer to store all our sadnesses
in the one fragile and ancient monument
we knew we could rebuild.
Maybe Notre Dame became our safe haven, our way of forgetting, our reprieve,
from mourning all the losses we could not talk about.
Maybe the urgent outpouring to rebuild her
was as if our collective hands were waving
frantically
in outer space
to the other galaxies and planets
in case anyone was watching,
as if to say:
we were here
we existed
we created beauty.
Remember us for this.